


Stay a While

by its_mike_kapufty



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Don't copy to another site, Hipster!Link and Farmer!Rhett, M/M, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 19:56:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_mike_kapufty/pseuds/its_mike_kapufty
Summary: On his cross-country cycling trip, Link decides to stop in a cozy community to visit their farmer's market. After all, the town is charming, lovely to look at, and actually offers an experience he hasn't found anywhere else.Okay, honestly? He might not be talking about the town.





	Stay a While

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not typically one to write AUs with absolutely no road map. Nor am I usually one to post a story before it's finished. 'Til now, I guess. Consider it a writing challenge for myself.
> 
> Just having fun with this AU, and we'll see where it goes. ❤

Link has no intention of actually purchasing anything. 

Trips like these are just for fancy—to catch a glimpse of small-town life as only gleaned through first-hand experience, better than the inevitably-failed capture of _je ne sais quoi_ that road atlases and guidebooks offer. As Link shoulders his backpack and locks up his bike on one of the available docks at the end of the promenade, he gazes out over the farmer’s market and tries to appreciate that same ineffable quality so he can internalize it. Reflect on it, perhaps, come the end of his journey. _Yeah, that was my favorite part; overlooked, but so quaint._

Homing his hands in his pockets, Link strolls down the way and admires all the details that he’s certain residents of the sleepy town have grown to take for granted. 

It’s a scenic place, for damn sure. One long stretch of cobblestone in between homey, inviting shops with hanging beveled signs. He’s particularly fond of the warped windows of the shops. They whisper of time passed and a creep of modernization so slow that not even the fragile glass has once woken from its slumber. 

Pastel wooden siding in yellows and pinks, porches with rocking chairs, a railroad cutting between the pharmacy and the cafe. The omnipresent smells of smoky pulled pork and sweetened funnel cake mix with the comforting aroma of well-cared-for potted flowers. The sun is bright, highlighting raw joy on giddy children’s faces and popping colors on vendors’ booths.

Small as it is, it doesn’t Link long to reach the end of the festivities. Unless he wants to venture into the neighborhood beyond, he must turn around and lap back on the other side of the road, and so he does. Immediately he’s greeted with a large wooden sign hanging over a soft blue canvas tent. The hand-painted letters on it boast _Fresh Maters, Taters, & Cukes. _

The terminology stops Link in his tracks as he reads it several times over, and when his eyes fall to the man running the show from the shade, Link realizes he’s being scrutinized for wearing a goofy smile. Feeling silly, he moseys over and joins the rural entrepreneur in the relief from the heat, scratching his nose.

“‘Cukes’, huh?”

“Yessir,” the farmer nods, running his thumbs behind his suspenders and tugging them out in a show of breast-swelling pride. “How many ya like?”

Now close, Link takes in the man’s get-up, because _surely_ all of this is an act. The worn and dusted clothes like he’s fresh from the fields. The mussed golden curls and unkempt beard sprouting a toothpick. Those hardened green eyes that undoubtedly add years to his appearance. It’s all a hokey gimmick to draw in tourists… just like Link.

“Sorry,” he coughs, motioning to the array of produce. There are the as-advertised tomatoes, potatoes, and cucumbers, along with eggplant, chard, carrots, cabbage, and a variety of herbs. “Just browsing. I, uhh… didn’t think anybody really used the word ‘cukes’.”

At this, the farmer chews on his toothpick and lets his hands fall. “So you ain’t buyin’?”

Not with that attitude, thinks Link. Not at all, actually. He’d come here with the clear goal of _not_ spending any money, no matter how many endearing crafts or tempting home-cooked dishes caught his eye. Even if he were dishing out money, the last thing on his list would be raw vegetables.

“Sorry… again.”

“Figures,” the farmer mumbles, crossing his arms and glancing past Link’s shoulder. “S’fine. Yeah, folks still call ‘em that. Work with dirt under your nails s’long as I have and three syllables adds up.”

“Fair enough.” A fly buzzes over one of the tomatoes on display, and Link shoos it away absently, earning an amused snort from the farmer. “How long have you been growing crops?”

“Since I could walk. My folks retired a few years back, and now McLaughlin Acreage is all mine.” At this, the farmer restarts and offers a hand, which Link accepts. “Rhett McLaughlin.”

“Link. Nice to meet you.” No need to include a last name; he doesn’t own a farm, and he won’t be staying long.

“Well, Link, if you know anyone who needs fresh veggies, send ‘em my way. Things’ve been tighter than usual ‘round here since that chain grocer opened in Jackson. People’d rather go there and save a buck than support the livelihood of their neighbors, I guess.”

“Shame,” is what Link says, but can anyone really blame others for wanting to save money? Things have been tighter for _everyone_ lately, it seems. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

Rhett nods, tipping his glossy locks in farewell and shooting a wave over Link’s back. “Howdy, friend. What can I get for y’all?”

“Just browsing,” comes a soft voice from behind Link, and dammit, if that doesn’t pang sympathy through the cyclist’s chest. 

How many times a day does he hear that, this man struggling to make ends meet? Each time must be a bell rung, a reminder that things are indeed changing, even if the facade of a town like this seems static. Stilled, Link stares down at the neat little row of eggplants and their shiny, plump flesh. And before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s pulling his wallet out of his pocket and clearing his throat. 

“Gosh, I don’t even know what to pick today!” he laughs boisterously, startling Rhett into a befuddled stare. “Would you mind, Mister McLaughlin? Bagging me up two of these _aubergines,_ a quarter-pound of potatoes… ooh, maybe two or three carrots, as well? Ah! And what kinda _lunatic_ would I be to miss out on that world-famous parsley?”

Rhett stutters, glancing at the other customer as his cheeks flush. He swiftly grabs a large brown paper bag and collects the requested yield. “‘Course. Anything else for you, sir?”

“Well, _yeah—_ I can’t leave without a head of cabbage!” Link chirps, smiling like he hadn’t just bid farewell to the flustered farmer. “I’ll tell you, I dunno why anyone would drive a town over. You’ve gotta be touched in the head to think dinner guests can’t taste the difference between home-grown gold and some mass-produced dirt!”

Before Rhett can even offer a total, Link thrusts a fifty dollar bill at him and secretly lavishes in the way the man’s eyes pop open. “Keep the change.”

“Oh, thank you very much. Pleasure doin’ business with you, bo.”

“No no, the pleasure’s all mine.” 

Link takes the bag and makes a show of turning, pardoning himself past the now-very-much-interested woman who’s keen on buying some potatoes of her own. And she’s not the only one, it seems; his loud praise has attracted attention, and a group of several other market-loiterers make their way to Rhett’s tent, discovering it anew like it had just appeared out of thin air.

When Link turns and winks, Rhett’s slack jaw closes into a small smile.

* * *

$50 and two hours is the total cost of the ruse, and after getting a drink at the coffeehouse and people-watching through the end of the day’s market, Link makes his way to his bike and sets his bag of produce in the basket. He unlocks his ride, mounts it, and pedals casually over to the end of the street, where Rhett is loading a rusted red pickup with the meager remains of his inventory. 

Rolling to a stop behind him, Link braces the bike to still with one foot. “Hey.”

When the farmer looks up, he smirks. “Hey, you. So much for ‘just browsing’. Pretty sneaky, what you did.”

That smile is contagious. “You’re welcome.”

“Need somethin’ else?” Rhett asks, straightening and considering Link with sweat on his brow. He wears the ‘rugged laborer’ look well. Wears dirt well.

“Just wanted to give you your produce back,” Link admits, grabbing the bag and offering it with one hand. Rhett nods, like he’d been expecting this.

“One sec. Lemme get your money.”

“No need. Keep it.” 

When Rhett pauses and shoots Link a look, it’s cold enough to wither spinach. He searches for words, and when he finds them, speaks slowly. 

“Listen… I appreciate what you did today, but I ain’t no charity case. Ain’t some backwoods sob story to throw tax write-offs at, y’hear? I’ll get you your refund.”

“It’s not a refund. This is a gift,” Link insists, shaking the still-offered bag. “From one friend to another. And should you elect to turn around and try to sell my gift later, I would not be opposed to that.”

Rhett huffs. “Just keep the dang veggies. Fair’s fair. You paid for ‘em.”

“I did. But I’m also on a cross-country trip right now,” Link retorts lazily, raising one shoulder. “If I keep these, I won’t have a way to cook ‘em. They’ll rot. Surely you can find something better to do with them than to allow me to contribute to food waste?”

Birds sing in the trees book-ending the street as Rhett takes his time chewing this new information. It’s right when Link is about to shrug and pedal off that the farmer closes the distance between them and snatches the sack out of Link’s hand, turning and placing it gently on top of the rest of his things and shutting the tailgate to his truck.

“42 Pine.”

“What?” Link asks, not sure he’d heard right.

“Tonight, seven o’ clock. Be there,” Rhett instructs to the truck bed as he ensures everything’s packed away. “Least I can do is cook you dinner with the stuff you bought. And I mean a real, _home-cooked_ meal—good southern eats. Not that fast food garbage you’re probably used to from bein’ on the road.”

He’s got Link’s number on that. Even Panera gets old after a while. 

When Link doesn’t respond, Rhett tacks on, “I trust you can get there? I’d offer to give y’a ride back now, but I got chores to tend to 'fore I can get cookin’.”

“42 Pine?” Link echoes, and Rhett faces him with a tired smile, wiping his brow. It darkens his sleeve, adding to the sweat-damp gray of his shirt.

“Hard to miss. Big barn visible from the road, gate guardin’ the drive. I’ll leave it open for ya.”

Well... it doesn’t get much more _je ne sais quoi_ than that, does it?

Link feels himself smirk. _P_ _rrrings_ the bell on his handlebar.

“I’ll be there.”


End file.
